


Brand New Colony

by jewishfitz



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, post-159, pre-160, rated T for swearing and vague mental health things, safehouse fic, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23313898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jewishfitz/pseuds/jewishfitz
Summary: A collection of scenes from an unnamed safehouse in Scotland
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 17
Kudos: 104





	Brand New Colony

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Brand New Colony by The Postal Service. Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.  
> I’ve literally never written fluff in my life. This is an outlier and I’m sure that once season 5 starts we will be back to pure unadulterated melancholy.

Martin, of course, remembers the myth of Orpheus. He isn’t stupid.

He knows the stories and he can see the obvious parallels, but Jon isn’t Orpheus. He isn’t a renowned and talented musician, and Martin isn’t some stolen bride. Jon didn’t bargain or impress Peter Lukas to secure Martin’s freedom. Martin isn’t exactly sure what he did, but he knows that Lukas is gone and that Jon looks more awake now than he has in a very long time. Of course, that might just be the adrenaline of fleeing London still wearing off. Martin smiles softly to himself. It looks like they managed to run away together after all. 

Martin shakes his head slightly, clearing his thoughts. Regardless, and most importantly, Jon turned around many, many times on their way out of the Lonely. He kept checking to make sure Martin was still behind him, even though Jon had a vice-like grip on his hand.

Still, Martin has always been a bit of a romantic at heart (as, he thinks, all lonely people are), and the comparison makes him feel emotions he’s not quite ready to revisit just yet.

Jon has his eyes on the road with an unwavering focus. His silhouette is illuminated periodically by the light of the cars passing in the opposite direction. Jon is beautiful, he thinks, and then Martin slips into a dreamless sleep.

The cottage is not what one might expect from a safe house. It is quaint, if a bit dusty. There is a somewhat worn couch, behind which are some bookshelves (empty) and in front of which is a fireplace (also empty). There is a small kitchen, big enough to be usable but definitely not luxurious. There are stairs leading up to a second floor. Martin catalogues these things in a rather disconnected way. The most important requirement of a safehouse is that it is, well, safe; the rest is a bit extraneous. The door rattles when Jon shuts it behind them and Martin swears he can see the whole house shudder along with it.

Jon moves to stand next to him. He exhales deeply, then sneezes, wincing somewhat. “We don’t have time to clean it tonight, do we?”

Martin checks his watch. “No, we should probably get some rest. We can pick up some cleaning supplies tomorrow when we go to the village for groceries.” (Plans. He is making plans. Plans for tomorrow with Jon. Tomorrow might not be very far into the future but is far enough and he is taking baby steps and he is making plans for tomorrow with Jon.)

Jon nods. There is exhaustion ingrained deep in every inch of his face. He is beautiful, Martin thinks (How many times has he thought that, between now and two years ago? Probably more than he’s like. Probably not enough.)

Jon looks up at Martin. “Bed?”

Martin nods. “Bed.”

Stars are splattered across the sky like paint on a canvas. The two of them are sitting on the steps of the (their) cottage, huddled together against the cold of the night. Martin can barely make out Jon’s silhouette next to him.

Jon points up at the sky. “That’s Orion. You can tell based on the three-star pattern, over there. That’s his belt.”

Martin nods, and points to a different section of the sky. “What’s that one?” 

Jon squints. “Caster and Pollux. The twins. Gemini, I think.”

Martin laughs. “At least the Eye left you with some perks.”

Jon huffs indignantly. “I knew all of this  _ before _ I joined the institute, thank you very much.” He points again. “That over there, the W shaped constellation, that’s Cassiopeia.” He grins, really truly fully grins, and Martin can scarcely believe it. “That one has always been my favorite.”

Jon has a favorite constellation. Jon is adept at stargazing. Jon’s smile can be seen even in the dark. All new information for Martin, and he recalculates his concept of Jon to fit it.

Jon is humming something under his breath, gripping his mug of tea with both hands. Martin thinks Jon is like a star; brilliant, beautiful. A force to behold. Martin is hopeless, and apparently still a poet at heart, even if he can’t put pen to paper anymore. He looks up at the stars. The stars look back.

“When is it going to stop?” Martin spits the words out like they’re something sour over jam and toast in the soft light of their kitchen.

Jon looks at him, confused and expectant, and something in Martin gives. He sighs, and his whole frame sags. He used to wish he could collapse in on himself, become as small as possible. He doesn’t, anymore. Most of the time.

“Ever since we left the Lonely, I’ve felt like I’m on a knife's edge.” He is all hushed ramblings and quiet gestures. “Which is such– such bullshit because I’m happy here! I’m happy with you! We deserve to be happy.” He looks back down at his toast. “But I still feel like there’s another shoe over my head, waiting to drop.” He can feel Jon looking at him, but Martin’s gaze remains fixed on the table in front of him. “Every time it gets too foggy, or too quiet, I feel– I feel like it’s come back for me and my stomach drops and I just think ‘here it comes, it’s happening again.’ When does it...” His voice breaks, but only a little. Martin feels very small. “When does it stop?”

Jon is quiet for a long moment, before slowly and deliberately taking his hand where it rests on the table. Martin looks up instantly, and the force of Jon’s gaze nearly makes him gasp.

“I don’t...” Jon sighs, closes his eyes, opens them, and begins again. “It doesn’t, I don’t think. Not really. But I do think it gets better, with time.”

Martin nods slowly. “Yeah, I figured. I know. I just–” he feels petulant, almost. “I wish I could just be done with it. I wish it would be done with me.”

Jon strokes the back of his hand with his thumb. “I know.”

Martin smiles. “Yeah, I guess you do.”

Jon loves Martin. Martin knows this, now. He thinks that maybe Jon has loved him for a while, but only recently has Martin come to learn what Jon’s love looks like. It’s a subtle thing, like the way light shines through the leaves of a tree: a soft glow, but a persistent one. It’s all encompassing. It’s beautiful. It’s… warm.

Jon doesn’t say it, and Martin is okay with that, because he doesn’t need three little words to confirm what he can see with his own two eyes. It’s small things, like the way Jon always makes an extra cup of tea for Martin whenever he makes one for himself. It’s the way he sheepishly grins every time he steals one of Martin’s sweaters. It’s the way Jon nervously and somewhat giddily hands him a slightly battered book entitled “Nature, Poetry, and You” one day when he comes back from his trip to the village for groceries. It’s the way Jon looks at him, at first snapping his eyes away every time Martin catches him staring, then smiling fondly without even bothering to hide it. Martin used to feel like a sample on a microscope slide under Jon’s gaze. Now, he finds it far less cold clinical. It’s tender and a little awed, and Martin finds he doesn’t at all mind him staring sometimes. It’s… it’s nice, feeling known, feeling understood.

Here is something that the world at large has lied about: no place ever feels like home immediately. You will never enter a room and immediately feel like you belong there. Home is something built; something earned.

Home is a feeling, as much as it is a place. This isn’t a new revelation for Martin, by any means, but he’s appreciated it more in these past three weeks than he ever did back in London.

When it boils down to it, he feels safe here, in their cottage. There’s still the everpresent apocalyptic dread, of course, but it feels almost suspended. He feels like he belongs here, the rightness of it all settling deep in Martin’s chest. He is at rest, an atom in its home state. The earth continues its revolution at a breakneck pace but Martin Blackwood is still and safe.

Maybe it's something about the way the light streams down through the windows in the morning, or the way the floor feels under his feet. Martin thinks about these things, but he knows it has more to do with who he’s with when he experiences them, because Martin feels safe around Jon. It is a hard-won safety, a tenderness not taken for granted. He can feel it, palpably, in the times when Jon falls asleep propped against him while reading a book on the couch, or when he hums nonsense melodies under his breath while cooking dinner. Martin feels safe; Martin feels loved. He thinks Jon does too.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on tumblr for more nonsense, I'm @jewishfitz!  
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated, especially in this Trying time.


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